


Writing is a Form of Catharsis

by silentdroplets



Category: Original Work
Genre: Childhood Friends, Cutting, Cyberbullying, Death, Depression, Falling back into depression, Going insane, Imaginary Friends, Mental Breakdown, Self-Harm, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 06:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9872033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdroplets/pseuds/silentdroplets
Summary: Short stories.May be triggering for certain stories. Will include a warning in the summary beforehand.





	1. My Imaginary Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/gifts).



_I am Pound._

_This is the name you gave me._

_Right?_

_Do you remember?_

_Do you?_

 

~~~~~~

 

My first moment of joy was when you called my name.

 

You were bored, I recall, and staring at the plate of disgusting porridge in front of you, you decided you needed a friend. You were much too small to go out and make friends, I remember.

 

So, taking up a plastic teacup, you set a chair next to you by the table. I was a blob of fuzziness, rapidly taking on a certain shape in the dark recesses of your head, watching your every action through the windows of your soul.

 

Legs still weakly formed, I was brought out to the real world. I sniffed the fresh air - it was filled with the scent of some sort of baby powder and milk formula. I liked it. It smelled of _you_.

 

I propped my aching legs up on the table and you swatted my feet. To anyone else, it seemed like you were just flicking at a fly, but you and I knew what _exactly_ was going on. “Put them down,” you scolded in a tiny, timid voice, testing out the soul you brought forth. But then a smile appeared on your face. “We are going to have so much fun, Pound.”

 

I beamed - it seemed like I was your main source of happiness. I liked being your friend.

 

~~~~~~

 

You made more friends - Penny, Shilling, and Farthing. All the first words you heard from your mother and father as they bustled about the house, talking about figures and business topics you were too young to understand.

 

I was the oldest. You told me to take care of my brothers and sisters, and I did so. We were a happy family, you and us.

 

Penny was the smallest. She was tiny, but she could dance well. She’d run about and twirl gracefully with you, her carefully-tied plaits swinging around like little helicopter blades. Penny also liked jam buns. She would get the sugary syrup all over her face whenever she bit into one, and grin widely. She was a little imp, but a sweet one.

 

Shilling was the older brother who helped put all the mischievous ideas and thoughts into action. He loved getting into puddles and splash all around you in the rain, getting mud all over the both of you. He was also your partner in crime - running all around in muddy footprints and earning screams from the old housemaid who had worked so hard to keep the floor sparkling.

 

And Farthing - Farthing was a sickly child. You liked to nurse him in your doll cot, soothing him with cool ice bags and delicious herbal soup. Well, it was mostly chicken soup, but that always seemed to do the trick. He’d jump back on his feet, happy and well again, every time you took him under your care.

 

I was Pound, the sister who assisted you in your jobs; I’d clean up the jam on your lips (and Penny’s), wiped up your feet whenever you got muddy (and when Shilling did too), pat you (and Farthing) gently on your back whenever you had a harsh cough.

 

We all loved you dearly, and you loved us back, smothering us in kisses and soothing lullabies.

 

We had quarrels as well, squabbling over the smallest thing - about who got the last donut, how much tea we’d all get, who would sleep in the hammock with you and who could sleep on the floor. You’d come up to us and pinch our cheeks. Painful it was, but to me it was an act of affection.

 

“No more arguing!” you would scold, and we’d run from you, back to the tea table where we belonged, waiting for our punishment.

 

You never gave it to us, though. Rather, you would laugh at us, calling the four of us “funny friends”. We nodded at this term. It suited us.

 

We really loved you.

 

~~~~~~  

 

We were elated when you decided to introduce us to your friends.

 

You were six, old enough to go to school, and you were excited to get to the building you called a “school”. There were many people there - adults who seemed lovely and nice, children around your age bustling about. It was crowded, so we had to squeeze through tight corners and narrow spaces in order to get to our destination.

 

When the class started, we watched as the lovely lady in front of the room told everyone to introduce yourselves. You turned to us and whispered, “When it’s our turn, let’s tell everyone about our adventures!”

 

We agreed, of course. The more friends we made from there, the better!

 

Many of the children who went up were shy, unwilling to expose themselves to the others in the same room as them, but when it was our turn you bounded up with all the energy you could muster and beamed at everyone. The teacher - the lady standing beside us - smiled at you. Did she not see us waving, too?

 

“My name is Rachel,” you said. The other people sitting on the colourful mat chorused a slightly monotone “hello, Rachel”.

 

It was a bit disappointing, all right, but you didn’t falter. Instead, you beckoned for us to join her at the front and pointed to us with a huge smile on your face. How proud you were of us!

 

“This is Pound, and this is Penny, Shilling, and Farthing,” you giggled. Everyone else stared at the space beside you, but did not have any reaction.

 

“Where are they?” one asked, raising his hand and pointing beside you. “I don’t see anything.”  The others around you murmured in agreement, and we heard words of disgust and shame and mockery. We glanced at you. You looked devastated. Your eyes didn’t have their shine anymore.

 

The teacher looked appalled, too. “Rachel, is it possible that you are just imagining things?” she asked. You shook your head. We did too. We were real, weren’t we?

 

“We don’t see anyone, though. I suppose you may have imaginary friends, but they are not real, and you must remember to make real friends around here, okay?” she said and waved to the other students.

 

They laughed. You cried.

 

Since then, you’ve never let us come with you to school any more.

 

~~~~~~

 

The day Penny disappeared was the day you discovered you didn’t like dancing any more.

 

“I don’t want to dance anymore!” you screamed when the doctor applied the pungent ointment on your poor, snapped foot and bandaged it up. On that day, the shard of hatred had been embedded in your young passion for dancing and, as though it were an eraser, rubbed it all out.

 

While you were recovering, Penny had tried to convince you that it was just a little accident, that injuries happened all the time, that you shouldn’t give up so easily. You reluctantly nodded at her words and waited for the foot to heal. Penny had stroked it ever so tenderly, willing it to return to its original, healthy state.

 

However, what was erased could not be retrieved.

 

Penny, upon seeing you discard your dancing shoes, was devastated. She had tried to dance in front of you to cheer you up, hoping that this was a little tantrum that would go away afterwards, but you yelled for her to stop.

 

That you now hated her.

 

“I’m giving up dancing. It won’t bring me a future bright enough for a position of recognition in the society.”

 

“But it’s your passion! How could you give up something you like so easily?”

 

It was obvious you had done a lot of thinking in the process of healing, and we saw that each time we accompanied you to school and watched how everyone talked to you. What they said to you.

 

Penny cried, her tears dripping onto her clothes. Each droplet erased a bit of her existence, and no matter how much we tried to save her, she disappeared, the tears engulfing her entire body.

 

She was gone.

 

~~~~~~

 

The day Shilling disappeared was the day you were scolded by your parents and forced to read books we didn’t know you enjoyed.

 

“It’s time to study for school,” you explained to him in a dead voice – one that lacked feeling, lacked the usual smile in it. “I can’t play with you, Shilling. I’m sorry.”

 

With that, you turned away from him and waved him away, your nose buried in thick pages of pictures and words to learn to spell and read.

 

Shilling cried at your words and tried fervently to rekindle the love for puddles, the love for fun, but you didn't even so much as glance at his efforts, turning away from each pool of mud you saw. 

 

 “Do you not understand fun anymore?” he asked, clinging to your arm. “Is the need for knowledge that strong?”  

 

“It is for examinations and tests that would bring me higher up in society and to further education to bring me more chances for jobs,” you explained. None of us understood what you meant, but you seemed serious. You brushed him away and continued to read.

 

“Is status in the world that important?”

 

  “Yes.”

 

Then he disappeared.

 

He was gone. 

 

~~~~~~

 

Farthing faded away into an abyss of nothingness - the empty space of forgetfulness in your mind.

 

That was the day you got to school and learnt more about the ways of doctors. 

 

"Being a doctor and taking care of sick people is so hard! I don't like it," you said as you pouted. "Too much work! I don't like it.”

 

Farthing, coughing and sneezing, tried to make you remember that you didn’t mind the work the first time you tried taking care of him. You just wanted to see him healthy again.

 

But you refused to listen and continued to read the little storybook your teacher pressed in your hands. 

 

Farthing cried, and let the loneliness pull him into the dark, deep hole. 

 

He was gone.

 

~~~~~~

 

I struggled to be the only friend you remembered.

 

But you were getting way too busy to talk to me, to whisper loving words to me, to think about my existence as you listened to the teacher rambling on in the lesson.

 

I didn't want to be like my siblings, who had disappeared from your memories as time passed, but I knew my time was coming. 

 

So when you stopped speaking my name altogether, all I could hear was the sound of my own tears slamming against the echoing, empty walls of your imagination.

 

~~~~~~

 

You were twenty, working in a decent store and chatting to friends. 

 

Meanwhile, I, Pound, was scrabbling through the recesses of your mind, to find that light switch to make you somehow remember. Although I knew it would be fruitless, I wanted to give it a shot. You might somehow remember.

 

I was a fool to think that.

 

Jumping from your mind, I landed next to you, waving my arms in front of you. I searched for the spark of light in your eyes whenever you saw one of us, begging silently for you to remember. After all, they were your first friends.

 

But it was fruitless. Your friends, my siblings - they could not budge from their non-existence. After all, real friends replaced us. We were just a substitute for whatever was about to come about in the future - the time after your innocent, happy childhood.

 

So I slumped down against the wall and waited for my entire being to disappear, for my body was already starting to fade off. 

 

Then your inner voice spoke, telling me something that I would always remember, even if you didn't. Even if I was sitting in the space of non-existence and couldn't see you any more. 

 

"Pound? Oh, she was my imaginary friend. I loved her a lot.”

 

That was the only thing I needed to hear before I left.

 

My last moment of joy was when you called my name.


	2. Who Am I?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Costumes.
> 
> Roles.
> 
> They are alike.
> 
> How so?
> 
> You put on a costume for one role - putting on props and dresses and shirts and shorts that you don't even own - to act in a play.
> 
> You take on a role - putting on a mask that you don't even know you own - to face the world.

So many days ahead of me.

 

I am merely a student in a crowded school, where popularity is key to success in making friends, where studying is the path to a good future, and where many put on a pretence through these processes.

 

I am a friend.

 

What do friends do?  

 

Be there for the people who consider me as their companion. Listen to them while they tell me of their struggles, their lives at home, the many complaints they have about certain experiences. Accompany them in the cafeteria. Lend them a pencil when they forget their stationery. Buy them tiny little trinkets for their birthdays. Make them happy.

 

I am supposed to get something in return, am I not? Aren’t friendships bonds, too? Both parties are supposed to contribute to the relationship to keep it running, am I right?

 

I have to put on a constant smile for my other friends and tell them I’m all right, so they can be assured that I am not shaken by their troubles and confide in me bravely.

 

I am a student.

 

What do students do?

 

Study, study and study. Learn the ways of formulae and how they work, apply them to problems that are written in firm, black ink on the pristine paper, then try to use them in our everyday lives. Learn the ways of analysis, thinking out of the box and inferring from blocks of words that are meant to tell a story, tell a situation, tell an event.

 

There is also the learning of coping with the many expectations one may face as a student. With great grades come greater expectations. One may say that the only expectation you have to fulfill is yours, and as long as you do your best that’s all that counts, but are parents’, friends’ and teachers’ expectations going to disappear magically just like that?

 

  No.

 

No, they aren’t.

 

So I try to smile and nod at the expectations everyone sets me. Tell them, yes, ma, yes, pa, yes, Madam, yes, sir, I will do my best to reach these goals. Be the fine student that earns everyone’s respect and recognition.

 

I am a child.

 

What do children do?

 

Grow, develop and learn. Although, of course, these processes have to be sped up, because many people believe in a fast-paced society that waits for no one, and as I grow, I see that is true. So, before I can truly begin to understand the workings of things around my environment, and me. I am pushed into a nursery to begin my adventures in learning essential things like counting and spelling.

 

Later on comes the responsibility of showing care for my parents and interacting with them. If they are unwell, I have to take up the duties of a filial child and take care of them in the tough war against the nasty pathogens.

 

At dinner, gatherings and family time, I have to spill whatever is in my mind to them, tell them about the workings of school, and laugh with them about the stories at their workplaces.

 

I am an elder sister.

 

What do elder sisters do?

 

Take good care of their siblings. Make sure they aren’t throwing up anytime soon or causing trouble around the house. Make sure they don’t fall into the wastepaper basket or crawl into the washing machines or up on the windows. Make sure they don’t break anything.

 

Be a good role model for them. Set an example, do the good things around the house to teach them the proper ways of doing things, being polite, having manners, how to behave in various situations.

 

Be their friend. Again, listen to them when they need someone to talk to, give them a shoulder to cry on, let them vent their frustrations on their sister’s ears. Lend them whatever we have that they don’t, keep up with their mischief, laugh along with them when they do something funny.

 

I am a stranger.

 

What do strangers do?

 

Do whatever they are doing in a public setting. Be polite, smile, don’t create a fuss in the middle of nowhere, don’t act like a creep, don’t intrude on others’ privacy. Strangers do not know who other strangers are, so there is minimal contact, minimal communication.

 

I take on many roles.

 

What do people with many roles do?

 

Create masks.

 

There are many occasions for different interactions as various roles. Switching roles in life is exactly like switching roles in between scenes in a play - pulling away the costume, veil or mask that indicates who you are and where you stand in the play before putting on a new set to go for a new scene as a new role.

 

Putting on a different set of clothing each time I change roles is, to be honest, a habit. I don’t show the same set to my parents as I do to my friends, nor to fellow strangers and younger siblings.

 

There are different pieces to a set in costuming, and it is the same with roles in everyday life. There are aspects of a side of me I show to my friends - the supportive, caring, laughing, cheerful, loud - which I do not show to strangers. I do not treat strangers the way I treat my friends. It is entirely different.

 

There are so many details in each costume I wear, I forget who I actually am.

 

This feeling is akin to acting in a play and getting too engrossed in it - switching between roles, getting too attached to a few of these roles, sticking to it so much that one forgets who they actually are in real life, when they are not on the stage where people see them as _them._

 

Sometimes, I try to search myself to find the costume that was once me, me as a whole, me without the roles and costumes and props that doll me up.

 

I can’t find it, though.

 

It is like I have infused into these roles, switching between them so easily, I forget to keep what is most important of me in the process. I am too attached to my roles.

 

My parents say, “Be yourself,” but I can’t, because I don’t know how to be myself in front of people I care so much about.

 

My friends say, “Be yourself,” but I can’t, because I don’t know how to be myself in front of people who laugh with me, confide in me, treat me as their pillar of support.

 

My siblings say, “Be yourself,” but I can’t, because I don’t know how to be myself in front of people who look up to me as a role model, whom I teach and cultivate as a sibling.

 

It is an instinct to pull up my costume and switch into a role whenever faced with the situation, be it in front of my parents, with my friends, in class or anywhere else.

 

Who am I, really?

 

What is my purpose, other than to switch between the countless roles I have?

 

Who exactly am I underneath all these masks, all these costumes, when I am truly me?    Who am I when I am separated from the costumes I have grown so attached to I forget what I am truly like?

 

Who am I?


	3. I Find Solace In My Self

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rei finds solace in her self.
> 
> Chloe is her solace.

Rei stares at the girl in front of her.

 

She is greeted by another suspicious look.

 

“Are you my companion?” Rei asks, running a finger through the folds of the other girl’s skirt. It looks real. It feels cold and unreal to the touch, though, but she accepts the image in front of her. Her companion is real.

 

More importantly, though, she has a companion.

 

Rei stares a bit more, then smiles.

 

Finally.

 

Someone else.

 

“I’m your companion, but I think you knew that, didn’t you?” the girl speaks. She sounds glassy, like she wasn’t a real being, her voice echoing, ethereal and dreamy. “My name is Chloe. Nice to meet you.”

 

The smile on both their faces widen.

 

~~~~~~

 

It’s fun speaking to Chloe.

 

She’s a perfect person, a perfect friend. I have never seen a better companion than her and I am happy. Much, much happier than I was some time ago. How could I have survived without her during those past years? I must have been missing out on so much.

 

Chloe isn’t just an ordinary person. She talks to me whenever I will her to and she appears from time to time - whenever I need her to be there. She is always there for me.

 

I’ve always wanted a companion like her. Understanding, kind, helpful, you know, the like. And here she is, standing in front of me, a huge smile on her face.

 

She isn’t like any other person I’ve met. Unlike those friends, she listens to my tears and tell me what to do, even if it’s what I’ve thought would work. She gives me affirmation that these plans are all right to go ahead with. She isn’t like any other person, who would shake their head at my ideas and butt in with their own thoughts.

 

She gives me the courage to do things, even if the outcome may not be as good as we’d expected.

 

She seems to have some sort of telepathy too, you know. When I’m being pushed and forced to a corner, she hears my chain of thoughts and overflowing mind, and speaks to me. She tells me things from the side of my mind, calming things to soothe myself, and gives me methods to fight back.

 

Courage is what she gives, and it is what I receive from her.

 

She is my hero.

 

Most of the time, however, I spend my evenings in the washroom, away from the clutter and noise of the house, speaking to Chloe. She resides in places like mirrors and shiny, glossy surfaces, which I feel is painful for her, since she can’t see the world properly. She doesn’t tell me how to behave in front of others, and it is when I can shake away the shell I hide in and talk freely. She doesn’t laugh at me. She doesn’t think I am a freak.

 

She tries to comfort me as much as possible when the screams outside intensify and there is noise being made. She tries to tell me that there is nothing going on outside, that it is just a little argument between Mother and Father, but sometimes there is no comfort in her words. So, the both of us can only huddle together in the washroom and wait it out.

 

It is like a storm outside. Chloe waits it out with me. She is a great companion to be with.

 

Like any other person not from my school, though, she isn’t allowed to follow me into the compound, but she is a sneaky one. I catch glimpses of her in the mirror, or in the glass. No one else can see her, though.

 

She is my hero, but no one can see her.

 

That’s because she is mine. My friend, and no one else’s.

 

She belongs to no one but me.

 

~~~~~~

 

Being Rei’s father is, to be honest, a very tiring thing.

 

She worries me so much.

 

Giving her the attention she needs is difficult, because each time I try to talk to her she cowers away and refuses to open her mouth to speak her mind. Maybe it’s because of the countless times I’ve quarrelled with that woman.   My wife was a truly happy soul, pure and energetic, always up to some sort of adventure. Her eyes used to sparkle with mischief. She was a child at heart.

 

That was why I fell in love with her. Her mind, her heart, and her soul were beautiful and clean, as innocent as a child’s.

 

Until Rei came along.

 

It wasn’t Rei’s fault. I don’t blame Rei for whatever is happening now. If anything, I’m most worried for her and I wished I could have sought treatment more quickly in the past. Now, there is nothing I can do, and it has ruined Rei.

 

The soul is now stained with the stench of alcohol.

 

She is uncontrollable. With each day her depression swallows her more and more. It is difficult to protect Rei from my wife’s ravings. She thrashes about all day, and the only thing I can do now is to bring her to a hospital.

 

My heart is forever shattered.

 

I don’t know much about Rei’s progress in school, nor what she does at home when I am at work, but whenever I come home, I hear her talking to someone in the washroom. However, there’s no one with her in the little cramped space. She insists on showing me the “Chloe” she has befriended - and points to the mirror each and every time.

 

She tells me stories about her adventures with Chloe - running around and fighting the bullies she faced in school, skipping school when she didn’t feel like attending lessons, stealing her classmates’ work and copying it to her own worksheets. She tells me about Chloe’s courage and how much she admires her. She tells me about how confident she feels around Chloe.

 

Who is Chloe?

 

Why can’t I see her? Is she Rei’s imaginary friend? Rei is not a child any more - she has grown out of that stage for imaginary friends.

 

She loves talking to the mirror, however.

 

She seems to have grown insane.

 

My wife and child are insane.

 

What is happening?

 

  ~~~~~~

 

  I am Rei’s psychiatrist.

 

Rei’s father brought her to me two weeks back and pleaded for me to “fix whatever’s wrong with her”. Rei isn’t talkative and refuses to speak to me or any other person properly unless prompted firmly. However, she takes great pleasure in talking to the mirror when presented with one. It is almost like she talks with the mirror itself.

 

Her family thinks she is out of her mind, and it seems that way. In fact, she is not talking to the mirror, but her own reflection.

 

She talks to the reflection in a bid to find herself. It is like a self-reflection, where she asks her own self about matters going on around her and tries to find solace in the conversations she has.

 

The current situation of her family - her mother falling into post-natal depression and going on a rampage each time she visits, and her father shouting at and blaming himself for what is happening - has prompted her to find a companion of her own, and she is her own friend.

 

She can only comfort herself in such times, and from her conversations with “Chloe”, I have deduced that she is confronted by bullies in school, too. She gets into trouble a lot in school simply because she follows what she tells herself to do - or rather, what “Chloe” tells her to do.

 

Such examples include playing truant whenever she feels like it, talking back to some of the teachers, fighting back whenever confronted by the bullies, and purposefully breaking some minor school rules.

 

She gets most of her courage from herself.

 

I have also inferred that she has few friends in school, and that not many are willing to spend time with her to understand her struggles. Her teachers have not noticed this as Rei conceals her feelings and emotions too well.

 

It pains me to see such a fine, young lady with outstanding potential being faced with so many troubles at home. It is even more sorrowful to witness her turn to herself for help, and in the process, lose her sanity. I hope that through the sessions that I will have with Rei in future, I will be able to bring her back to reality and help her with her struggles.


	4. Swimming Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mom, dad.
> 
> I see you.
> 
> Finally, after so long. I see you.

It was Swimming Day today. 

 

They called it by a different name, but I didn’t really want to listen. I don’t like water. Water likes to crawl into mouths and nostrils and take over people's breaths. It is a cruel affair. Its pretty blue hue cannot fool me. Its sparkling surface cannot lure me. It cannot tempt me to dip myself into its wavy surface. 

 

Splashes occur and swallow person after person up into its watery belly. Then they float onto the surface, their head down. I assumed they have learnt how to breathe there and are now free of that problem we humans have. I like to believe they are now swimming gracefully, in the air and in the sea, blowing bubbles and chasing fish, twirling clouds and drinking the rain. 

 

We were gathered in a small group near the masses of water in the hall. I peered at them. There was a lifeguard sitting on a high chair. Funny thing it was, a ladder and all, but he caught my gaze and smiled and waved. I waved back. 

 

“We will be learning how to swim today!”

 

The teacher continued to speak of safety precautions and strokes to swimming in the deep waters. I let my gaze wander around the pools and colourful floats at the side. They looked pretty. 

 

“Remember, you’re not allowed to go to the four metre deep pool! That’s only for diving, and we’re not going to be using it!” 

 

A four metre deep pool. That is really deep. That would be as tall as three and a third of me standing on each other’s shoulders. 

 

The teacher blowed her whistle and the others waddled off to a shallow pool. A mark saying “0.2cm” was marked there. What is a “cm”? Does that mean “coconut marks”? I liked coconuts. Maybe the pool is made up of coconut water. 

 

We waded into the water. The water lapped up to my calves. It was safe, at least, and I dipped my head down to lick the waves. The disappointing taste of plain water, accompanied by some unknown disgusting substance, hit my tongue. 

 

“Now, let’s practise the moves!”

 

I copied the teacher’s arm movements, working our way through different strokes in the air. I glanced at my swimsuit for the seventh time that day, and glowed in pleasure. It was my pride and love, a beautiful shade of dark blue, sleeves adorned with frills and embroidered flowers. 

 

After a long, long time of flapping our arms and kicking our legs around in the shallow waters, the teacher told us to take a break and drink some water. 

 

My friends scurried to the benches, chattering and drinking their fill. I caught sight of a student nibbling on an apple, and my belly grumbled like the rumbling depths of the pools. 

 

Water squelched under my soles as I stepped over to the deep blue ripples. The teachers were busy fussing over the boy who had choked on his apple and was now spewing tears like a fountain, and the lifeguard was nowhere to be seen. 

 

I climbed up the tall steps and glanced down. People looked like ants now. I stepped onto a diving board and tested it. It looked nice enough. Bouncy. Like a trampoline. 

 

I prepared for a launch. Then I jumped, the surroundings whirling and blurring from my sight, focusing entirely on the rippling water underneath me. 

 

I closed my eyes, readying myself for the impact. 

 

The water swallowed me whole, wrapping me with comforting arms and embracing me in its warm grasp. It welcomed me into the water. I breathed out and looked up at the surface, which was slowly, but surely, becoming a rippling mess above me. 

 

Light filtered through the waves and shone onto my skin. My lungs felt starved, but my belly was satisfied. _I_ was satisfied. Now I could see my future - my parents embracing me in their arms, hugging me tight, celebrating my reunion with them. I could see the joy on their faces, a joy I could never forget. 

 

I sighed in the water, contented as I watched the last of the stale air in my chest bubbling up and floating to the surface. My eyelids drooped and covered my eyes, and in the darkness I saw my parents extending their arms towards me. 

 

And as muffled shrieks resounded in my ears, and a pair of arms hauled me up onto the cold tiles, I knew that somehow, I would be able to see my parents again. 

 

I felt my breathing disappear as the last of horrified screams faded from my ears. 


	5. Pain Is A Form of Catharsis, Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: self-harm.
> 
> I cannot stand it any longer.
> 
> It has been two years.
> 
> The two years have not taken away my desire for pain, however.

 

Breathe in.

 

Breathe out.

 

Not difficult to do.

 

It is okay.

 

Wandering into the school bookstore like any other student - except, feeling pairs upon pairs of eyes being trained on me, staring at my back, staring at my quivering fingers, while I am heading to the back of the little store.

 

Passing the racks of pens, highlighters, more pens, ink refills, erasers, yet more pens. Passing the boxes of post-its, glue sticks, blunt scissors, paper clips, rolls of tape. Passing the stacks and stacks of writing pads, journals, notebooks, graph paper pads, even more writing pads.

 

To the corner where art supplies are kept.

 

Paintboxes, paint, paintbrushes, so much paint. Pencils of varying shades, colouring pencils, canvases, cloth, and there.

 

Bending down and tilting my head to get a better look at the metal.

 

Costs a dollar or two for a single penknife with a few snap-off blade refills, costs seventy or eighty cents for ten refill blades in a pack - who the hell cares about the price.

 

Picking up the cheapest - and the one that looks similar to the ones used two years back, and heading back to the front of the store. The cashier - she always smiles and comments some little bright happy thing about her customer’s purchase, like a spare apron if she forgot it for cooking lesson, or a roll of tape if she needed to tape something up for class decorations.

 

She glances at my purchase, however, and glances back at me. In that very fleeting moment, I see the question in her eyes, bubbling on the tip of her tongue, her lips tense as though she longs to spill the words what are you going to do with so many blades. But she remembers they sell it in the store for a reason, that anyone can buy it, and swallows the noises about to trip off her mouth.

 

Passing me the little packet of metal while I hand her a dollar coin. Getting back some spare change, and I stuff the coins and packet into my wallet.

 

Walk like nothing’s happened.

 

No one knows you’ve got ten snap-off blades in a packet in your hand.

 

No one knows.

 

Feeling the eyes being attracted to me, though, their questioning looks boring holes into my back and arms and hands and face and hair and legs and everywhere I am exposed to the world.

 

Hide.

 

I do so and stuff the blades into my bag and pretend nothing has ever happened.

 

~~~~~~

 

Left untouched for some days.

 

I am afraid my mum will see. But one day, she falls asleep early and my dad is outside doing some work which he concentrates on, fully, so I pull the packet out and rattle its contents.

 

Metal bumps against soft plastic in a satisfactory manner.

 

I pull the tape off its plastic body and pluck a blade out. It smells like tense rubber.

 

Surveying the shine of the blade and checking the sides of it, just to make sure, and sure enough, there is another piece of cold metal stuck to it.

 

Luckily, I remember the foolish times where I used two blades instead of just one because they had stuck together, and I remember the strange feeling of bluntness it creates when it pulls across its tight surface.

 

I roll a sleeve of my shorts up - my left thigh - and caress each and every one of the newly-grown skin there. Bumps that look like scratches, raised, new skin grown over old wounds. 

 

Scars.

 

I angle the blade - ready to strike at its newest target - and pull it across. My hand is unsteady, however - two years off the habit has gotten me to forget the feel of quick pulls and the sting of pain and red. 

 

The habit has gone, I note, and attempt another slice.

 

This time it draws a bit of red out, but it isn’t enough. Not painful, not bright enough.

 

I try on another spot, on another scar, and this time the red seeps out in wonderful droplets that gather on the surface. The sting is just right, and it lingers, even after I’ve wiped the red off to taste it on my fingers and slid the blade back into its packet and slotted it into my pencil case.

 

~~~~~~

 

Soon, fresh blood stains the dark, black fabric of my school shorts.

 

Pain is a form of catharsis, too.

 

A form of escaping feelings that bubble and rise and scream and boil, even though there is nothing for me to be sad about.

 

The lack of feeling is what brings the feelings back.

 

Too empty, and the emotion, the rush, comes to sting and prick and bite.

 

Too much, and you crave escape.

 

Pain is a form of catharsis, too.


	6. perhaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my thoughts.
> 
> trigger warning: mentions of plans of suicide

If there was a way to turn back time, I would do that. Turn back time, allow my parents to teach me differently. I would tell them I want to write, I want to bowl, I want to play the piano. I would learn, slowly, surely, and soar to greater heights.

 

If there was a way to turn back time, I would do that. Unsay my words. Take back whatever I had told my friends. Swallowed my feelings and emotions. Learnt to keep my heart in my chest, where it belongs, instead of wearing it on my sleeve. I would have more friends. Everyone would love me more.

 

If there was a way to turn back time, I would do that. Study hard. Drill everything into my brain. Learn, learn, learn. Do well in all my tests. Get a 4.0 grade point for all my subjects. Be the apple of the teachers’ eyes. Have a chance, maybe, to go overseas to study.

 

Right now, however, I’m just a failure. I make so many mistakes. I can’t seem to do well in whatever I do, so why study if I’m not going to score well in my tests anyway? Why go for training sessions when I only pull the bowling team down? Why write when I know there are more people out there who are better than me at expressing feelings and emotions in the form of words? Why continue my piano lessons when I can’t even play the piano well to begin with?

 

Why do i even exist?

 

I just want someone to hold me tight. Hug me to their heart and tell me, over and over, that they love me, that they would not be able to function without me. That they’ll be devastated, crippled, utterly crushed if I were to die. It would be my motivation to stay afloat. It would be my motivation to keep my head above the water and force my lungs to breathe, force my heart to keep going.

 

Except, however, there’s no one to do that. Sure, there are people who love me, but they don’t love me enough to do that. I would gladly do it for certain people, but they don’t seem to care about me enough to even know whether my disappearance would affect them or not.

 

Life’s still going on for me, though. I have no goal. I have no aim. I have no place to go to. No place to truly belong to.

 

Sometimes, I think about taking a kitchen knife and plunging it into my chest, not fatal, but serious enough an injury so that I’ll be rushed to the hospital and I’ll see who really, really cares about me. Then I’ll find motivation, I’ll be happy again, even if there’s a gaping wound in my chest healing ever so slowly and throbbing whenever I move.

 

But then I think again. It would rake up a ton of hospital bills. My parents and family would worry, because they would, why would they not? And what if no one even cared? What if no one else loved me? What if they didn’t care if I died from that knife or not? What if I truly died, and I wouldn’t live to see the people I actually care about?

 

Sometimes, I think about taking a kitchen knife and plunging it into my chest, before realising what a selfish little brat I am. No one would care, because I’m selfish. No one cares. Not one person. Not one.

 

So I take a staggering breath, unsure of what air I could possibly be taking in, what environment this air could possibly be from, what my surroundings truly are. 

 

Then I take a step forward.

 

And another.

 

And another.

 

Till where?

 

I don’t know.

 

Perhaps when I reach a rock and trip over it. Where a knife awaits me and slashes itself deep into my chest. Killing me, allowing my soul to cease existing. 

 

Perhaps.


	7. What is Cyberbullying?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many forms of bullying. The rates of cyberbullying is on the rise, but what exactly is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an essay I wrote for an exercise in my English class!

On the Internet, one may freely write their opinions across the many spaces left for people to reside in, as an anonymous or unveiled identity. Everyone is given the liberty to express themselves. However, there are some who may use this privilege to invade another’s space and then walk off, leaving behind footprints of tears upon their target. Cyberbullying is happening. This is what it is. 

Cyberbullying is sneering at someone you hate with the use of an army of letters on a keyboard. Their choice of clothes is utterly distasteful, their face is covered in little dots that have appeared in the grand arrival of growth spurts and hormones, and they are simply pretentious, seeking attention from every single person they meet. You snigger at them from behind, but you simply cannot let it rest.

Of course, the most obvious option is to pull up your phone and type in a little message to remind that person how disgusting they are. Bring their self-esteem down and make them understand their flaws are bigger than what they think they are.

Cyberbullying is cornering that person and blocking off all routes of escape, forcing them to near insanity. You reach through every place they visit on the Internet and dig through the space left for them to stay in. They do not have anywhere to find comfort in, and they are helplessly stuck, reading needles and shards of hurt and words you send them. They cannot do anything about it.

Being pressed to a corner where they cannot move, stress getting to them and eventually, when the words are hurting more than they should, they seek other ways to escape the pain. You become responsible for the loss of a life.

Cyberbullying is revelling in the feeling that you are in control. No one can possibly stop you from torturing your target, and they cannot struggle from your grasp either. As a teenager, no one seems to be listening to you, so the only way to feel like you are in charge is to resort to cyberbullying. You can manipulate the variables of this situation, controlling when, where, how to make your target get hurt. It feels good, and it certainly feels better than having your opinions cast away by others. You are given the constant reminder that you are in complete authority. 

When your target reports your actions, however, the walls that hold your authority up on a pedestal crumble. This is what cyberbullying is – grasping control of something and reaching through the screen of your phone to express your hate and anger, and when the tables are turned on you, there is nothing you can do, for your target now assumes total power. You are punished for your actions and are expected to feel remorseful, but it is, really, up to you if you are truly apologetic for the damage you have done. Look to the world. The harm you have inflicted is irreversible. That is cyberbullying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew this was kind of short but hey hope you liked it HAHA


	8. Our Shards of Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We claim that we remember the pieces of our childhood.

Maybe the days we all lived in were gone.

 

We all claim our childhood was fun and enjoyable, filled with laughter and love as we recall our games and interaction. We all say we remember how we played with our friends, how we enjoyed treats, how lovely that we were so innocent, naive. 

 

Our eyes fill with the tears that were once the stale waters beneath our skin, never getting a chance to breathe the fresh air. They slip down the cheeks that were once full of kisses blown by our family. They drip and stain onto the clothes which were once stained with only the freshness of nature. 

 

Each dream that gave us the motivation to work on disappeared. They disintegrate into tiny pieces, crushed by the heavy expectations that our family, teachers, even peers give us. We all realise the struggle in the society, and we learn that it’s either fight or die. We fight for our survival, no matter how hard it is, and with each stroke of the weapons we wield, we cut out a part of our innocence. These pieces spill out of the depths of our heart and shatter like glass. 

 

As each bit of the child in us fester and wither and our minds are infested with the disease of work, the pure white childhood is stained with this mould. We forget how sweet the air is as we constantly force our heads into the water, hoping to learn how to breathe under the waves. 

 

And as we slowly learn, we breathe the air of struggles and pain that manifest in the waters of the world. We forget how beautiful the land is as we slip into the water to practise our swimming and grow the fins we didn’t have before. Each piece of us now is just a copy of others, to get to what they are, and the word “me” does not truly belong to us anymore. 

 

Only that glittering shard of innocence that threatens to break floats aimlessly in our hearts. That is the only thing which belongs to us. And because of our selfish actions, foolish thinking, we forget the sweet feeling of true air, the place where we truly belong. That little shard slips quietly into the abyss as it suffocates in the waters which it never learnt to breathe in. 

 

And we claim that we remember the pieces of our childhood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to the guest, Someone who also has depression.
> 
> This is for you. This piece may not seem like the happiest thing to read, but it is one of the first bits of writing I tried out a few years back. This reminds me of why I pull up the laptop to start writing, and more importantly, why I still try to stay alive - even if I feel that if something were to kill me, I wouldn't mind. I really, really want to try touching people's hearts with my writing. This piece reminds me why I try. This is for you. 
> 
> If you're reading this, thank you, anonymous user. Thank you for your comment. I do not know how old you are now, nor how much time has passed since your diagnosis, but I really hope you're feeling much better. I will try my best to write more to lift your spirits whenever you feel unhappy. Thank you.


	9. A Dream, or a Burden?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you reach your dreams, do you rejoice? Do you fully immerse in the glorious feeling of finally accomplishing what you've always been working for?
> 
> Do you soon find it a burden?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A piece from my creative arts programme portfolio.

He watches the lady bend over, her tiny body crouched over a bush, picking at leaves and sorting through petals and plants with her wrinkled fingers. Old as she might be, her actions are still nimble and strong, pushing through challenges every day with rejuvenating energy.

 

“Help me take these, Milton,” she says as she hobbles over to him with a bundle of herbs in one hand and a small basket in the other. “We need to get to the clinic with these medicine as soon as possible.”Milton recalls the sight of children, adults and seniors slumped over, bodies burdened with illness. It’s terrifying to witness.

 

“Coming!” he calls, and sweeps up the basket, making sure none of the precious herbs spill over. After all, they’re needed for the people’s treatment.

 

They start their journey up a hill, the path weathered by the footsteps of men and the fresh wind from the ocean nearby.

 

“We’re just a small village in the middle of nowhere,” his grandmother tells him for the possibly hundredth time, “so, we need to fend for and take care of ourselves.”Milton nods. He knows how illnesses could wipe out the entire village. He’s seen an epidemic for himself, seen how it took the people away, seen what sort of horrors it could bring to the village.

 

“We, as villagers with a basic knowledge of medicinal herbs, should do our best to contribute to the nursing of sick ones - help those in need.”

 

When they’ve reached the top, the teen breaks into a run, still careful not to turn the basket in his arm upside-down even before he’s reached the tiny hut. He raps on the wood, and the door is opened.

 

“The medicine is here!” he calls. The nurses inside breathe out, clearing whatever tense air is in their lungs, and reach forth to take the basket into their care.

 

“Thank you so much for your help,” they whisper. “There are so many patients today and we wouldn’t know what we would have done without the both of you.”“You’re very welcome,” says Milton’s grandmother as she steps to his side.

 

He glances inside the room while his grandmother and the nurses exchange quiet words and advice. It looks dull, the patients probably sitting somewhere in another room, and his heart feels constricted, suffocated, pained at the thought of it.

 

Sailors who go out into the waters to earn their food, the ones who come back drenched in salt water and hit with a cold, the ones who gain all sorts of illnesses with the lack of proper hygiene out there in the empty waves.

 

He swallows and steps away from the hut, waving goodbye to the nurses and helping his grandmother down the slopes.

 

“I’ll be a doctor next time, grandma,” he tells her, firm determination rooted in his eyes, burning brightly like the coals in a furnace warming up the cold. “I’ll be a doctor, and help all the sick and end the plight here.”His grandmother nods and smiles at him; she is glad for his dreams, but she knows not many get the chance to escape the life of a villager in the middle of nowhere and enter the bright cities further into the world.

 

He does, though. He gets the chance to, when one day his teacher tells his parents about the hard work he’s put into studying, and the potential he has to get into the bigger schools out there, they decide to fund his studying as a nurturing, blooming student who will create a brighter future for the world, or if not that, his village.

 

~~~~~~

 

University was tough, but forturnately, he pulled through.

 

Thanks to the lectures and countless nights of studying the human anatomy, the workings of the little pathogens that enter the body and attack, and the ways to fight against them, Milton stands in front of the huge city with a small luggage in hand and a smile on his face.

 

Finally.

 

His dream has come true.

 

Well, not _quite_. He has yet to start his first day at the clinic in the most popular corner of the city and serve his first patient. He doesn’t worry, though - he has a day to unpack and explore the buildings and streets of this bustling area that is _nothing_ like his home before he goes for work as an official doctor.

 

Imagine the title on his wall - Dr. Milton Smith. He’s finally someone who can help the sick in the best way possible - giving them the proper diagnosis and the proper prescription.

 

How wonderful.

 

He smiles to himself as he walks to his apartment - a small flat rented out by a lovely couple. He couldn’t be happier.

 

He unpacks, takes a tour around the place, has dinner, and then decides it’s time to call it a day and rest for the busy day tomorrow.

 

~~~~~~

 

The clinic is neat and pristine, absolutely nothing like the hut he frequented back in his childhood. There aren’t any grimy walls stained with grease from the medicine cooked and brewed from simple herbs, nor any bleak, dull faces when he steps into the clinic.

 

Instead, what he sees is a friendly receptionist and two cheery colleagues from the other consultation rooms. There are cushioned benches and bright magazines, and there is no slick of dirt on the walls. It looks perfect.

 

It even smells of the favourite disinfectant he used when he was a trainee in the university he studied in.

 

He is hustled into one of the rooms, shown his desk and equipment, and that’s it - work starts. His first patient will be coming in very soon.

 

And there she comes, knocking on the door in a most polite manner, bustling in with a red nose and a sore voice as she speaks about her ailments and he takes it down in his new, shiny computer as fast as he can.

 

Now, this is easy - she’s got a bacterial infection of her throat, which may turn into a bacterial cold that could take her down with a fever for the next few days, so he prescribes antibiotics to fight the bacteria before they spread too far down and tell her to wait outside to collect the medicine.

 

She thanks him and leaves.

 

This is an easy job. Diagnose, prescribe, done. He’s helped a patient with her ailment, and she should be fine in a few days.

 

After the door clicks shut, he lets himself smile to the ceiling and twirl about in his new chair.

 

“This is my dream job,” he says to the cold air in front of him. “This is what I’ve always wanted.”

 

~~~~~~

 

Except, it isn’t.

 

Not all patients are as easygoing and patient as the first woman he’s diagnosed on the first day of work in the clinic. Milton soon sees the yawns his other fellow doctors sneak in between breaks, the dark eye circles they hide behind their surgical masks, the bleary, bloodshot eyes behind their spectacles.

 

He now understands why the receptionist often pulls a long face when she isn’t at the counter to pass patients their medicine or take their number or register their names into the list of people on the queue.

One of the worst that he’s met is a mother whose teenage child is down with a slight fever and he’s ascertained that he’s got exhaustion.

 

When he advises the mother to not overwork the poor teen - just look at his own eye circles and the way he staggers into the room with great difficulty - she shoots him a string of profanity and insults, shouting at him for lecturing her about how to treat her child. He can only sigh in response and request for her to leave the room.

 

It’s tough, but he tries to hang in there.

 

One day, he returns to his apartment and checks his bank account on his phone.

 

The total sum stated there - the money he’s saved up from all the work in the city - isn’t enough to pay the total of the rent, the loans he’s gotten to attend university, and the money to send back to his village.

 

He sighs and collapses on his bed.

 

It’s going to be tough.

 

Pursuing his dreams from the start may not be such a good idea, he thinks. This is too much work.

 

The next day, he shuffles into his consultation room with a bleary mind, dreading what the day has to bring. He doesn’t even care to bring the occasional joke into his conversation with his patient, or take extra effort to advise them about their condition.

 

He doesn’t really enjoy it that much anymore.

 

Is it worth it, he thinks when he finally pulls through the day and returns to his tiny apartment.

 

What is he really working for?


	10. Dear Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wish she could come back to life again, so as a younger sister, I could help her with whatever troubles she had and stop her from the path she had taken."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A piece from my creative arts programme portfolio.

Dear friend,

 

I dare not call you by your real name, for I am afraid that I will start crying. You are a great person and I love you so much. It is a pity that you must leave, but then again, it is your decision, or nature’s decision. Could you not send me a reply to this letter if you see it, and tell us the truth of the matter?

 

It’s been a few years since you left. Growing and developing without you is tough, harder than anything we could have done together, because we’ve always been together. You’ve accompanied me through my entire lifetime, acting like a second mother, being my best friend.

 

Mother and Father are finding it difficult to cope without you, too. Ever since you left, work has been dull at the store and business has decreased. It’s like your presence lures all the cheer and fun to wherever you go, so now that you’ve left, all the quarrels and arguments erupt from the family like some suppressed volcano.

 

It’s got so bad that they’re considering closing it down.

 

Why did you have to leave? Could you tell me?

 

Since you aren’t coming back, we could recall some things we’ve done together before your departure. If you can read this letter, of course.

 

From the moment I was born till the end of our journey together, you’ve never gotten truly mad at me, no matter how many times I blamed you for things you’ve never actually done, or when I scribbled over your worksheets and landed you in trouble at school. You never fought back.

 

Even when Mother and Father blamed you for their troubles and worries, you would nod and head back to your room, not looking back to see what we were doing.

 

You didn’t seem to care about how Mother cradled me in her arms, how Father bought the nicest toy for me, and you never said anything about it.

 

When Mother told you to bring me out with your friends, you seemed kind of angry, but you agreed. You didn’t seem so reluctant after that, even buying a big ice cream cone just for me and letting me stay in the fast food place while you and your friends went out to do some boring shopping. You were so nice, coming back and making sure I had enjoyed my nice treat before going home.

 

There was a time, I remember, when you arrived back from school sulky and unhappy, unlike the many times you came back smiling broadly. How you managed to smile so radiantly after so many boring classes I did not understand, but Mother scolded you for being a bad example to me for pulling a long face.

 

When you came up to me, though, you would drop your pretence and show your true self to me. I felt honoured that you would be willing to let me see how you truly felt, and not let anyone else know this secret side of yours. I couldn’t understand why you were so upset and angry every day, but I thought that it was probably school.

 

When you left, you didn’t take your belongings or whatever. I was happy, though, since I knew you wanted to live somewhere else other than the house we lived in, and I think you’re happy in some other place in the world, contented and away from the constant scoldings of Mother and Father.

 

Well, then, Mother is calling me for dinner, so I’ll have to stop here. I hope you will be able to read this when we pay you a visit at the cemetery. Goodbye, then.

 

Your loving sister,

Audrey

 

~~~~~~

 

After reading what is on the letter, I am horrified.

 

This was written years ago, when I was but a young, naive ten year old and as smart as I may be in school, as articulate as I may be back then, I was oblivious to any signs my sister was showing.

 

I’m seventeen now. I’ve seen my share of people who have had difficult experiences and harsh times back in their homes, heard enough of their stories from home to understand exactly what my sister had been going through.

 

Each time Mother slapped her and shouted at her for being “incompetent in school”, I’ve always thought she wasn’t as smart or hardworking as she should be for her age. In truth, however, her grades were good, above average, better than the others in her school. It was Mother who had high expectations of her, and she got the worst of it.

 

Now that I’m in the same situation as her when she suffered these blows, I understand how she felt back then. Mother tries to tell me off too for my average scores - my grades were not as good as hers - but now she is old and frail, too tired to try to spur me on with her scoldings. She must have felt awful when Mother scolded her, and not me. I know she tried her best.

 

The many times I’ve shown off my new toys and clothes to her, the many times I put the blame on her for breaking things or scribbling on her precious projects or assignments that counted towards her final grade, she never said anything. Rather, she would frown at me and push me aside, and now I understand the profanity she would mutter under her breath.

 

It’s horrifying.

 

How could I have misunderstood all her actions? Why would I have shown off Mother’s and Father’s favouritism towards me to her? She must have felt so bad.

 

The other times when she came back, jubilant about the smallest of things, as though if they were made up on the spot as a reason to be happy - they weren’t truly reasons. They were lies to cover up her insecurity, because if she were to show that unhappy face, Mother would berate her about being a poor role model for me - the naive ten year old me.

 

When she showed her true self to me? 

That was when she unleashed all her pent-up frustrations on me, bent on making me learn my lesson, and I never understood why exactly she was so irritated. She was so angry, so furious, so tired of all the accusations that she just had to let it out somewhere, and she knew little naive me wouldn’t tell anyone if I were to witness her rage. I loved her too much.

 

Her suicide should come as no surprise to me if I had noticed more about her sooner.

 

I wish she could come back to life again, so as a younger sister, I could help her with whatever troubles she had and stop her from the path she had taken.

 

It’s a big loss to us.


End file.
